Merry Christmas, Mrs. Robinson Read online

  “I know. Which is why I thought maybe I could help.”

  “I cannot imagine the conversation was an easy one.”

  “It wasn’t. But it ended well.” He nodded and glanced out the window. Seeing his footman returning from the shop, he waited for the man to climb into the box seat. Leaning back into his own seat, Martin hit the roof of the carriage with a gloved hand, signaling the driver.

  “Onward!” the driver yelled out as he snapped the reins, directing both horses into the traffic and snow.

  A shaky breath escaped her as countless shops jogged by the glass window. The past and the present seemed to blur. Her father wanted to see her. And on Christmas. Imagine that.

  She glanced toward Martin, still in disbelief.

  Martin had stripped his hat, setting it onto the seat next to him, and was looking out the window at the falling snow that melted against the glass. Raking a gloved hand through dark, wavy hair to push it out of his eyes, he eventually said in a quiet, sincere tone, “I’m glad to know you aren’t walking in this weather.”

  Her breath eased into a more steady rhythm. This was the Martin she knew. The quiet, soft-spoken boy who thought of everyone but himself.

  For the first time in a very long time, she remembered just how much she had loved and adored him and wished he had been older when they had first met. Her life would have been so different.

  She paused, realizing something. Martin was older.

  Chapter Three

  I will never pretend to be worthy of you, but I will try to be.

  —Mister X

  It was a startling realization to know that sitting across from him—in his carriage, his, his, his—was none other than Jane. His beautiful, lovely, enchanting Jane.

  Her golden hair, which he remembered all too well, glistened in the low light of the carriage lanterns, hinting at the snow that had melted in its strands. Though her delicate features were still stunning enough to cause him to want to bite his hand, he was astounded to find that the years hadn’t aged her as much as changed her. Her demeanor was cooler, and not as warm as he remembered her to be. She had also completely done away with her regal, flawless presentation of an opera singer draped in satin, lace, and diamonds.

  The shabby grey linen gown she wore beneath a wool cloak and cashmere shawl whispered that she didn’t care to impress anyone anymore. Her thick blond hair wasn’t fussed over, either, but was swept up into a simple coif held together by a few pins.

  Sadly, the gilded opera singer who used to shake her fist at the world in an attempt to shock and scandalize appeared more reserved and removed. She used to scold him for being overly reserved and removed.

  Time had changed them both.

  Jane’s gloved hands fingered the reticule on her cloaked lap. She stared out at the passing snowy streets.

  Though a part of him wanted to leave her in peace, another part of him couldn’t leave her in peace. Not after spending so many countless hours, days, nights, thinking about her and nothing but her. Even the women he had found pleasure in over the years across Europe, in hope of erasing her, all became her in the end. She was every woman to him. The only woman for him. He knew that then and he knew that now.

  Realizing he should say something, for both of them had fallen into silence, he eventually offered, “How long have you known my aunt?”

  Wondrous green eyes snapped toward him. “About seven years now.”

  Her voice was still as melodiously warm and smooth as ever. Her mouth also still rounded about her words so perfectly when she spoke. Those straight white teeth teased him as they appeared and disappeared.

  She lowered her gaze, playing with the strings on her reticule. “Mrs. Granger is like a mother and a sister to me, both of whom, as you know, I had lost. I feel very blessed to have her in my life.” She hesitated and added, “It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

  He didn’t know why, but the carriage suddenly felt unbearably warm. “Do you really mean that?”

  “Of course I do. I have missed you. Very much.”

  He stared at her and recognized there was no escaping what he still felt for her. “In what way did you miss me? As a friend? Or as something more?”

  She eyed him. “My, how outspoken you have become. You don’t hesitate in getting to the point, do you?”

  “No,” he admitted. “I have learned there are consequences in withholding one’s words. I have long since learned to withhold nothing. Especially when it comes to women.”

  She kept eyeing him. “I take it you were involved with quite a few?”

  He leaned forward. Toward her. “Every woman prior to this moment meant nothing to me.” And he damn well meant it. He had realized all too late what being timid had cost him. It had cost him her. “Despite our separation, leaving London and going on tour was incredibly good for me. I learned to redefine myself outside of my father’s choking expectations. I learned to be who I really am.”

  Her features softened. “I knew you had it in you.”

  The earnestness in that beautiful gaze and that tone made him want to not only gather her into his arms but kiss her in the way a dying man might have kissed a woman he would never see or touch again. If he were impulsive like his brother, he would have seized her, draped her across the seat, and kissed her. Instead, he opted to be impulsive in a different sort of way. “So tell me. Did you get any more letters from Mister X?”

  Her startled gaze met his. “How do you know about Mister X?”

  He shifted in his seat, trying to shove aside the panicked uncertainty he felt knowing it was him. “After your astounding and incredible endorsement from Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, back in forty-nine, every gossip column bearing your name talked about nothing but you and Mister X. London claimed you were in love with him.” He had to know. “Were you?”

  She lapsed into silence and eventually said, “I was.”

  He tried not to remain calm. “So you were in love with a man you never met? How is that possible?”

  She took on a distant look. “I didn’t have to meet him. He revealed more to me in his letters than any man had ever dared reveal to me in person. I felt like I knew him. I felt like I had always known him.”

  He shifted his jaw. “Maybe you did know him.”

  She shook her head. “No. If I had, I would have never married Philip. He led me to believe he wrote those letters merely to own me. Much like every man wanted to after the queen’s and prince’s endorsement.”

  He could hear the regret. It punched him. “Was he not good to you?”

  “Oh, no. He was.” She nodded. “But as with all men, he allowed his lust and ambition to misguide him. My only regret is that he died thinking I hated him. I wasn’t pleased with him for lying and then publicly throwing a fit about it, but I most certainly didn’t hate him.”

  A stab of guilt pierced him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  She shrugged. “I blame myself for not being able to see past my own folly. I burned every last letter Mister X ever sent. Both he and Philip are but splinters from a past I don’t ever wish to remember.”

  A knot formed in his stomach. This could complicate everything he had planned. “I take it you now hate this Mister X?” he quietly asked, gripping his knees.

  She shook out her cloak as if she were shaking off the thought of him. “I don’t hate people,” she muttered. “It’s a waste of my time.”

  Which meant she hated him.

  He swallowed. Maybe, just maybe, it was supposed to happen this way. Maybe he was supposed to grow up, instead of hiding behind Mister X. Loosening his grip on his knees, he leaned back against the seat again and eased out a ragged breath. “I’m sorry your husband died.”

  She half nodded. “I still can’t believe the way he died. The doctors claimed he had died from apoplexy, but in my opinion, no man drops to the floor in the middle of a conversation.” She paused. “It was Twelfth Night. Many say strange things happen on Twelfth Night. And gi
ven what I had witnessed, I believe it.”

  Noting the carriage had pulled through the iron gates of his home, invitingly covered in snow, he decided it was best to wait until they were inside and he could provide her with the proof she needed to believe what he was about to say. “I say we have a brandy. You’re going to need it.”

  Her brows came together. “What do you mean by that?”

  He thought it was best not to answer. Yet.

  The carriage rolled to a halt. When the footman opened the carriage door and unfolded the steps, Martin gestured for Jane to step out first. He felt like he was about to end something before he had a chance to ever cradle it.

  In a blur of cold wind and snow coming down harder with each blasting gust, the butler opened the entrance door. Martin quietly led Jane into his abode.

  Once the door closed behind them, settling them into the silence and warmth of the lamp-lit foyer, he waited for the footmen to gather their cloaks, hats, and gloves.

  “Have a decanter of brandy and two glasses delivered into the study,” Martin informed one of the footmen.

  A loud bark echoed within the house.

  Martin smiled, knowing his large furry friend was coming to greet him as always, whether he was gone five minutes or five days. “Did you miss me?” he called out. Archer was the only one who ever saw him for what he was: a man. Not a title but a man.

  Archer sprinted toward them, his nails clicking against the marble floors, barking gleefully. The dog skidded to a halt before them, bumping into Jane with his large grey body.

  “Forgive him.” Martin nudged him away. “I’ve only had him for two years and he still doesn’t have any manners.”

  “It suits him.” Jane’s green eyes lit up. She bent down toward him, vigorously rubbing his head and ears. “Look at you,” she cooed down at Archer. “You are almost as big as your master.”

  Martin smiled and leaned in toward Archer, patting that warm, furry side. “Try not to say it aloud or it will go to his head.”

  Archer turned twice against their hands and darted off toward the study before pausing and glancing back at them with eager brown eyes.

  “We’re coming,” Martin assured him.

  Archer barked, turned, and disappeared into the study, paws thudding in the distance.

  “Are we supposed to follow?” Jane quipped.

  “Yes.” He glanced toward her, the light from the lamps illuminating her face, still aglow from the cold weather they had escaped. Even with her golden hair damp and windblown, she was stunning. He averted his gaze in an effort to focus. “When I’m at home, I’m almost always in the study. As a result, Archer expects me to be in there even when I don’t want to be.” He gestured toward the corridor. “Come.”

  Her gaze roamed the high ceilings of the foyer and the sweeping red-carpeted staircase that led to the rooms above. “I almost forgot how beautiful it was.” A breath escaped her. “Do you remember the first Christmas we spent together?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  She reached out and hit his arm. “What do you mean unfortunately? It was glorious.”

  He snorted. “Not for Christopher it wasn’t. My cousins forced that poor boy to smoke an entire box of cigars, despite him being thirteen. To this day, he can’t smoke without getting nauseous.”

  “Ah, but you forget how I emptied all of the ash from those cigars into their puddings in honor of revenge. And the best part? They never realized until after they ate it.”

  That was Jane. “I still can’t believe you did that.”

  A bubble of a laugh escaped her. “Tipped as they were, it didn’t matter. Whilst they all ate their tainted puddings, you read Twelfth Night to me in the study. It was like Shakespeare himself had been reading it. Until I fell asleep on your shoulder.”

  His chest tightened. She remembered that?

  Unable to refrain, he stepped toward her, reached out, and took her hand in the hopes of showing her that his home was her home. If she willed it. The coolness of her hand and its unexpected softness made him tighten his hold in an effort to give it warmth. His chest rose and fell in uneven takes, knowing he was touching her. After all these years.

  She paused, lowering her gaze to his hand.

  “Might I?” he asked as casually as he could, though his very soul was trembling.

  She hesitated, meeting his gaze. She nodded.

  Trying to contain the pounding in his ears from the frantic beat of his heart, he slowly led her down the lamp-lit corridor.

  He tightened his hold, knowing that once they were in the study, she might never want to hold his hand again. But unlike before, he wasn’t letting go of her again. Because Mister X was here to stay.

  Chapter Four

  You know me by heart; you simply do not know me by name.

  —Mister X

  The rustling of her gown and the rhythmic echoing of their booted feet in the vast corridor was the only sound drifting around her. Jane could hardly breathe knowing Martin’s large bare hand still held hers in what felt like possessive adoration.

  In his younger years, he had never once tried to hold her hand. She had always been the one grabbing his hand, as a sister would. But there was nothing brotherly about the way he gripped her now.

  Except for the occasional echoing steps of servants in the far distance, silence hummed.

  Pausing at the half-open doors of the study, Martin released her hand and fanned open both doors wide. He wordlessly gestured for her to enter an oak-paneled room with lofty ceilings.

  She swept past him, her snow-dampened skirts dragging against the inlaid wooden floor. She paused in the middle of the large study where Archer lay cozily stretched by a massive stone hearth decorated with garlands of freshly cut evergreen that fragranced the air.

  Archer glanced toward them, his large tail pounding against the wood floor with a thump-thump-thump, but otherwise, he didn’t bother to leave the warmth he had found.

  It was like coming home.

  Everything was just as she remembered it.

  The walls on the far end of the room were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves and shelves of old leather-bound books. Martin had always had one of those books in his hand. Always.

  On the other side of the room, a large mahogany desk with a pristine, gleaming surface held stacks of papers and several glass inkwells and quills.

  It was a quiet place for a quiet man.

  A footman in red livery entered with a silver tray bearing a large decanter of brandy and two crystal glasses.

  “Set it on the desk,” Martin obliged.

  The footman did so and departed.

  Near the desk, where the tray of brandy had been placed, her gaze fell upon the only painting to grace the room. She wandered toward the gilded frame hanging on the embroidered silk wall. She blinked up at the sweeping garden at sunset with roses bent against the wind and blades of grass tangling over a stone path. She could almost feel the summer wind against her face and smell the grass.

  She paused. Little pale faces with green impish eyes hidden within the bending roses made her draw closer and tilt her head in an effort to determine if she were actually seeing those faces. What were they?

  She glanced back at Martin, who had walked over to his writing desk, and pointed up at the painting. “The illusion is stunningly clever. What are they?”

  “Faeries.”

  “Faeries?” she teased. “How charming. I didn’t realize you had a penchant for faeries.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I hardly have a penchant for faeries. You were the one who wanted them in there.”

  She peered back up at the painting, noting there were more faces hidden among blades of grass. “I did?”

  “Yes. You did. You told me that painting needed faeries. So I hired a painter to do it.”

  She pulled in her chin. “I don’t remember that.” She turned toward him.

  “It was a long time ago.” His hand slid along the smooth, gleaming sur
face of the desk as he rounded it. “When we first met.” Removing the crystal stopper from the decanter, he poured brandy into each glass before setting it aside.

  He paused beside a drawer, then opened it and removed a sizable yellowing stack of letters bound by a white sash. He set it on the edge of the desk and tapped it. “This is long overdue.” He held her gaze. “I owe you an apology, Jane. I was stupid and had no understanding of the consequences it would bring. My only hope is that in time you will forgive me for being unable to confide the truth.”

  Her brows came together and she drew closer to the stack of letters. “The truth? About what?” She glanced down and undid the sash, picked up the folded parchment atop.

  Martin’s jaw tightened. He lingered, waiting. “Open it.”

  Unfolding the parchment, she paused as her eyes fell upon her writing and in particular, the scribed words, It appears my only remaining weapon, my beloved X, is to bribe you. As such, should you come to me tonight, I promise you will find me most willing.

  Her breath hitched as she frantically crumpled it against her chest in disbelief and snapped her gaze to Martin. “Where did you get this? Who gave these to you?”

  His expression tightened. “You gave them to me.”

  She gaped. “No, I didn’t. I gave these to the messenger Mister X always sent.”

  “Yes. I know. Stephen.”

  She still gaped. “How did you know the messenger’s name?”

  “Because I hired him. Every Thursday night I would write a letter in response to yours so it was ready to be delivered by your next performance.”

  She gasped and stumbled back, still clutching the letter in disbelief. It wasn’t possible. Those letters had been written by a much older soul and were overly passionate and bold and sweeping and— Everything Martin had never been. “You wrote those letters?” she breathed out.

  He nodded. “Every one.”

  The room momentarily swayed. It was like Twelfth Night all over again. When she had discovered Philip wasn’t—

  She set a trembling hand against her corseted waist, trying not to buckle to the floor.